Beneath the Weeping Wisteria
by Penrose Quinn
Summary: Her husband used to be kind. [Told in the short memoirs of Kagewaki's wife. Drabble series. AU.]
1. Memoir 1

**First and foremost:** There is _no_ romance.

 **Warning:** _Mature and dark themes. Violence. Manipulation. Emotional and Psychological Abuse. (Eventually) Sexual implications; explicit. Dub-con._

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 **4/15/18 EDIT: Apologies for my indecisiveness. This is the last time I'll be editing this.**

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 _of each tenfold adrift_ _in parting_

 _once steep'd o'er the curve of a bough_

 _fall beneath the weeping wisteria_

* * *

Her husband _used_ to be kind.

In her meditation, Tsubomi glances afar from the west pavilion where lay the wisteria tree bloom; clusters of soft mauve in ivory vine and blossom, entwined in streams with such closeness that may be likened to lovers' intimacy.

She is half-enraptured, half-melancholic, of dreams in pale violet; _he'd been beautiful_ , that man. Regal and elegant in the colors of prestige and nobility, and tranquil in all disciplined manner and grace. Despite the blue in his veins and the weight of his heavy robes, Kagewaki _is_ kind. A sensitive soul of poetic sentiments.

From the private recess of her mind, she reminisces of gentle hands and the softness of his gaze, of the poised arch of his back and the flowing purple of his sleeves—and how she marveled his colors then, like that of the wisteria willow.

 _A wistful sentiment_ _, however_ , she admonishes.

Now purple is somewhat akin to a bruise, dark and bloodless. The shadow in the evening that stains what is once pristine, and in its voraciousness, consumes it whole from the curve of its trunk to the cusp of each flower bud.

"Do you think," she begins in measured tones, "that the beauty of a wisteria is but ephemeral, my lord?"

In her isolation, Tsubomi is aware she is not alone as the silhouette behind her makes its presence known; and who is she to not distinguish the looming form of her husband? Yet even as he treads, his stride breaks its usual pattern to that of one that slowly prowls toward prey, like the nimble spider that treadles from silk web.

"Is it not?" Kagewaki speaks in his voice but with foreign tone. There is a harshness to it, a cynicalness harbored in the question, and it comes forth to her in the form of the dying breath of what is expected to be mildness.

"I suppose it is," she tells him in her quiet contemplation. "Transience, the bane of Heian scholars and courtiers alike," and she sighs, almost staggers a breath, when he takes another slow step forward and lurks behind her shadow as if waiting for the precise moment to slit her throat. She, Lady of the Hitomi Clan, does not waver in her deliberation: "and, perhaps, the wisteria tree," she smiles, but it is slight and wry.

"However futile it is to grieve," she goes on, and maybe he listens to her—in tedium or partiality? The man that hides behind her is patient and clandestine. "I still lament for it is fleeting; its beauty that speaks to my soul is bound to perish, as all lovely things are, I believe."

"A foolish sentiment," he says in return, though it is not one wrought in disdain but that of an age-old weariness. "All too _human_ , in its wishfulness."

And if she has not known better, she will not have mistaken his opinion for derisive criticism.

Finally, Kagewaki takes his place beside her, radiated by the flush of twilight. A rustle of gold-and-violet robes, dark curls of hair, a brush against the shoulder—he is cold. _He is cold._

"Such beauty is only skin-deep," he dismisses further. "It eventually rots."

"There is some measure of truth in your words," Tsubomi nods, and when she meets his eyes, they bleed of crimson and apathy. These are not _his_ eyes. "Though what I had loved was something more that transcended passed the pretenses of pleasing countenance,"—then a heated glare whips at her—"and now, I wonder, is it only _skin-deep_?"

This time, she knows, he shall be the death of her.

His slender hand reaches for her in a manner that impresses impending demise, and she can almost feel it reverberate from each fingertip, like the hollow echo of a koto verse, when her mind conceives the images of her husband's hand strangling her by the neck. Amongst all odds, she forces iron in her heart—and she waits and _waits_. . .

In a deceitful gesture, his fingers tuck a lock of hair behind her ear with a gentleness that is excruciatingly familiar. A mock of kindness—yet a sliver of Kagewaki, despite the imitation, the wretched illusion that remains and hurts her so. His flesh may be that of ice, but as his hand traces her cheek and dips below her chin, they leave trails of fire against her skin that kiss when they burn.

He tilts her face in an angle that makes her heart stutter, with such closeness that breaches the borders of propriety. The energy around him is intense and virile, and she fears it may consume her because it entices when it beckons for her name. Her head almost becomes faint whenever she drinks in the glorious sight of him; the slope of his nose, the sensual shape of his lips, and his eyes—once diffusing warmth, gleam like hot ember in soot. His eyes have never been so ravenous.

" _Wife_ ," he whispers deeply with a voice like sin. "Is it your intention to rouse me?"

The mere thinly-veiled insinuation is a seduction, in an insolence and ardency ladies-in-waiting pant for in the monogatari. Underneath her skirts, she instinctively closes her legs shut at the thought and shivers from the cold bead of sweat that slides down her spine. "No," she mutters with a compromising hitch of tone.

"No?" it is spoken through a long drawl, subject still to skepticism.

Tsubomi struggles to compose herself when he breathes to her; it feels like a caress. "No," she clears her throat, and in an attempt to break the tension between them, she utters in a practiced meek voice: "do I upset you, my lord?"

With raised brows, the creature lies in the sweetest of ways. "You speak as if you love another," he accuses coolly, which in a moment of hesitation, she finds disarming.

 _Clever as he is cruel_ , she thinks, as she perceives through his incrimination that intends to expose her—or, perhaps, to evade through fraudulence and dark allure. What better tool of deception to a man than that of false jealousy?

She grasps his hand from her chin and places it to her cheek in a fond gesture many a man expects of his docile bride. "There is no other," as he cradles her face, she leans onto his palm smilingly, "you are my husband," her lips kiss the soft pads of his fingers, "and I adore you."

And she lies, too, in their long game.

* * *

 **Exposition Corner:**

 **Monogatari** : she's referencing the _Tale of Genji_ by Murasaki Shikibu.

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 **A/N:** I shouldn't be writing this, especially when I have yet to finish my other stories or worry about deadlines in that matter. Anyways, I'm currently itching to write another tragedy. Oh, and a heads up, despite what the summary claims, I'll be adding bits of Naraku's POV too.

Also, I best suggest that you shouldn't entirely rely on POVs because the character's narration may hold a warped view in things—especially when I tackle Tsubomi's inner conflict about her husband's transformation, unsure whether he had been possessed or had undergone a shift in behavior.

Hope you enjoyed reading!

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 **Disclaimer:** I do not own Inuyasha.


	2. Memoir 2

_abreast within the greenwood_

 _the bird flits about with telltale songs_

 _of the waning moon_

* * *

In the morning, the gray thrush is her companion.

However their time has been spent short, as its blue-gray wings spread and it takes its flight—and in a way, this is what intrigues her most about that bird. It flies about, flockless and afloat in aimless circles, yet even as it has wings, it never soars far beyond the tall gilded trees. As it sings its song in a distance, she finds a kinship over the creature.

Tsubomi treads along the winding path from the castle gardens, marveling over pine and evergreen; each twisted branch upstretched and gracefully bent, light scarcely peering beneath a shroud of verdure and white mist. It is a private stroll, one she has almost spent a lifetime wandering over its expanse— _alone_.

Kagewaki no longer joins her in these walks. Due to his current condition, this excuses him for such small idle moments with his wife for being indisposed; so far, she has understood that they sleep in separate chambers as well, hers from the west and his from the east of the keep. With such detachments, it speaks in volumes of their relationship.

 _One parted with walls of lies_ , she thinks, but not with bitterness. _Though it hadn't always been like that._

Several moons ago, mornings are intimate affairs, which is shared and personal in the arms of a lover, oft after nights of coupling. Of course, the latter leans more to duty than that of indulgence as it constantly brings with it the pressures of expecting an heir. The memory, however, _is_ special; although the ordeal is not entirely pleasant, he is gentle. Even if she cannot hold a sob, he remains gentle when he kisses her tears away.

It is that quality that she admires about him, and she misses that man dearly. Has it been a fortnight ago or in a span of a week, when his heart has hardened? The night his lord father has met his end or it is when he is struck with an inherited ailment—that he, who lost little, has died so much inside.

The gray thrush warbles a tune from afar, and as the breeze greets her, Tsubomi almost imagines its song sounding more like a dirge.

—

And so she comes to him.

As the sliding door shuts close, a sense of overwhelming silence encompasses his room—a cavern of his possession, so dark and full of secrets that even the painted silk screen conspires. There is a spider above the closed window, and she becomes envious of its presence as it knows more of this conundrum of a man than she ever can.

They lie in the heart of his chambers, seated stiffly, facing opposite of each other.

"I have heard that another man died this month," Tsubomi tells him behind the sleeve of her kimono, fine robes of white and red; _red_ for receiving his favor. "My handmaidens are growing restless."

Her long lashes are lowered in such a way that makes her appear demure, unaffected as most court women are. "It is not my place, however I hope the situation is being taken care of," in a practiced motion, her hand rests above her thighs, and although she bares her face to him, naught more is revealed but a charming guile. And he must have realized this, too. "It is a concerning thought," she tilts her head, "that a _demon_ lurks within your lands."

His brows furrow slightly though his face remains smooth and unblemished with emotion. However the loveliest thing about him is his eyes. _His eyes_ that smolder—and never lie. "How are you certain it is a demon?"

"A rumor," a telling smile twists her painted lips, "my love."

A pulse of suspicion crackles the air between them. Perhaps, she has evoked the storm in his glare—or something ferocious beneath, because whatever broken light this room has spared is absorbed whole by the black of his pupil. "Is this only what you have come to me for," he begins, "to assure you of your _consternations_?"

In her practiced deference, she reassures him, "I also concern myself of your well-being and reputation."

"When you dress yourself suggestively?"

He smirks.

She almost finds herself at a loss of words when he looks at her beneath the layers of gossamer and twill weave silks, under powdered skin and perspired armpits. She lays small and naked in his gaze, and modesty becomes fiction with the reality in his incursive eyes. Retaining her composure, she delicately clears her throat. "Suggestive," she mentions in a coy tone, "is _not_ what I had intended."

Kagewaki utters, "Oh?"

"Is it wrong to dress my best for you, my lord?"

"Let us not dwell too deep into unnecessary niceties," and like that, he dispels the nuanced formalities with his sharp voice, and cuts through her when all at once, he places her in a vulnerable position outside the barrier of conformity. "Tell me, _Tsubomi_ ," she shivers at the sound, as her name curls in his tongue, which— _oppressively, slowly_ —rolls off in a long rumbling purr, "what is it that you want?"

Rendered disoriented, she sighs in resignation and so decides to confront him with honesty: "what had happened to Naraku?"

In a blink of a second, his eyes might have pulsed wide at the revelation, if he is not so keen in maintaining a straight face; perhaps, a mutuality they both share. "Hm, what of him?" he asks with a brow curved in mild curiosity. "I thought you disliked him."

"I do," Tsubomi admits, arbitrarily musing of the prospect of that foul man being ravaged apart for his abrupt disappearance, but she dismisses this—because despite her distrust for him and his maligned nature, she believes he holds an integral piece of the puzzle, for the time being. "However he is an adviser, is he not? I seek for his counsel in a particular matter."

This time, her husband does not restrain himself. His eyes glint in the shadows, a red spark of desire to know, and when he stares at her as one penetrates through another's soul, he grapples her for the answer.

Masked in question, he demands, "And what would that be?"

She breathes in. "Yokai."

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 **Crystal Tsukino:** I appreciate your review! Sorry for returning a short reply, but for now, most of those questions will be answered soon. I hope you enjoyed reading the latest chapter!


	3. Memoir 3

_the cleverest bird_

 _flies with clipped wings_

 _and hides its claws_

* * *

A nuisance and a distraction, that is Lady Hitomi.

From the yamabuki bushes, beneath the guise of a baboon mask, Naraku pores over her from the tea house. Clad in green and rose-gold brocade, she lay there from the open threshold as if imparting an invitation. Her crimson lips delicately part for a persimmon wedge, a sheen coat glistening from the corners of her mouth that winks promises of sweetness.

 _A taste_ , he almost considers, though the more inhumane side of him tells him to wait. There is not much to pursue in fruit that tastes of decadence, however one that is laced in poison should provide something more satisfying. He has played such games before, and behind the façade of docility, he is no fool to realize her resentment of him—a sliver of truth he has scraped from the unfathomed surface of her mind.

Her eyes are a shade darker than what he has anticipated, even under the shadow of a painted parasol or the barest fleck of emotion and unspoken motivations that dwell within.

In retrospect, Naraku is reminded of the reed blinds that cloister her from the world, and how it suitably becomes her. _The sheltered lady_ , he calls her, _that is brought up to hold her tongue._ In the pretentions of Kagewaki's adviser, he has only seen her twice; first, behind a curtained dais, and second, a mere glimpse during the funeral of the late Lord Nagasaki.

Only in this lifetime has he truly beheld the portrait of her, and yet he still ruminates how this human woman remains as an evasive creature, both in presence and in person. It infuriates him how she can simply conceal herself with but a graceful lie.

 _A cunning wench, that one._

Her hand glides toward the black teapot, arched from its weight upon her palm, and as she pours her cup, the brew reflects the painted gold camellia of the teapot, the manner it dances—it _mocks_ , from the inky depths of expensive ceramic. The fragrance is strong, and from the very cove of Kagewaki's conscious, he reminisces of roasted nut, a mellow taste of spice upon painted lips. _Oolong tea_ , he names it and then: _bitter tea._

Propped by a lacquered serving stand is a second teacup, empty still and cold from waiting. In his absence, does she anticipate for a visitor? Some domineering part of him riles at the thought of her independent actions and the other from inexplicable interest. Kagewaki's wife should least impress him although it is foolish to deny that this mere woman has not fascinated him with her furtiveness.

As she sips her tea, he then decides to make an appearance, unannounced, however the unbidden intervention of a maidservant compels him to withdraw back to the shrubbery. After an exchange of formalities, the sliding door gapes open. Naraku listens.

 _Let him in_ , she says, and what unveils behind the paper screen is a spindly man, clad in humble sable robes, and if it rings true, the rosary beads around his neck and the faintest pressure of spiritual energy determines that he is a monk. Removing his straw hat, his expression is almost severe, if not for the age lines that wizen his bearded face. Posture rigid, he sits on the prepared zabuton.

She does not simper though her charm rests on her practiced poise. "Good afternoon," she dips her head in civil regard.

In the same respect, the monk bows. "Lady Tsubomi," he acknowledges, "you have summoned me."

In an elegant motion, her hand politely gestures the tea. As he kindly refuses her offer, she nurses her teacup on her palms. "Is it too late?" the lilt of her voice is sharp and sullen, unforgiving almost of its own weakness.

"I'm afraid so, my lady," the monk lowers his balding head. "There is darkness in this castle, and it _grows_. In a matter of time, these lands shall perish within its berth," imparting such grave tidings, he admonishes her further in his old gruff tone: "if not from plague, then from yokai that is drawn by the dark."

The Lady Hitomi, however, does not flinch at the warning. "What of my husband?"

From the question, Naraku slightly raises his head.

Her dark eyes meet the cold depths of her untouched drink, distant in their appraisal. "What do you see? Is he under a spell," and then she returns her gaze back at him, "or under control of another being?"

Wrinkling his forehead, the monk clears his throat. "There is an ominous presence," he shakes his head solemnly, "however I cannot see further."

An interval lingers on, so does her answer: "I see."

"You must leave this place, Lady Tsubomi."

With a curse in mind, Naraku decides to murder the old meddling fool.

His eyes find the figure of that woman, bowed and beautiful like that of a fine flower, and should he cull it out from its garden, will it matter anyway? _Poor Kagewaki might grieve_ , he supplies in malicious blithe. _If he is alive._

"I remain bound to my lord husband," Tsubomi finally speaks. "Where he is, I am to be by his side."

Before the monk bursts in protest, she raises her hand in a sway of silken sleeves. "You shall be rewarded handsomely for your services to me," she announces, which bemuses him in his silence. Her stare turns men to stone, and from the utter of her lips, their hearts to ash: "However you shall leave these lands," is her final order, "and never return."

In these turn of events, Naraku thinks.

* * *

 **Exposition Corner:**

 **Zabuton:** is a Japanese cushion for sitting. It is generally used when sitting on the floor and may also be used when sitting on a chair.


	4. Memoir 4

_behind each jaded tree and thorn_

 _lay the tangled limbs of lovers_

 _and the splinters on their tongues_

* * *

"Why are you here?"

Tsubomi stiffens in her knelt form, her hand outstretched before the rows of Iyo blinds that isolate him. "I—" she starts, though as she tries to grope for the right words, nothing leaves her lips. It is midnight and the blue moon rises high and mysterious—and she, too, rises awake, with all but the turmoil that boils in her blood.

 _However I cannot see any further_ , the monk once has said. She grapples onto his words for days until its meaning pierces deep into her soul and her mind may have raptured open to invite this sudden bout of insanity that has persuaded her to sate that private whim: _to search for him_. She does not understand the pace of her feet then—without a handmaiden or a sense of decency—when she drags herself to the east wing and expect _this_.

Her fingers itch as she curls them back into her palm. "I don't know," she croaks, and despite the layers of clothing that hide her from the world, she feels bare from the creature with the face of her husband.

"Tell me, Kagewaki," her lips twist from his name; its taste almost _tart_ , like that of yuzu sucked from the pale flesh of its skin. She fears that if he kisses her, her tongue tastes of that bitter fruit. "Are you real?"

What lies behind the curtain of blinds terrifies her. Doubt coos upon her ear that there lay no man on the bed and the captivating voice that calls upon her is naught more but the echoes of a distant dream.

"What do you mean?"

"I am uncertain," she admits miserably. "Help me."

A thoughtful hum, like the croon of the evening wind, and then:

"Come closer."

As Tsubomi breathes out a sigh, she enters within his confines from the pull of his voice. The mosquito net and canopy embraces her in its welcome; soft and lavish as it clings like a pale shroud above her hair until it swallows her being whole. From the candlelight, the interwoven mesh gleams silver like that of the silken thread of a spider's web. _Inescapable_ , thrums the twined string.

Within the cocoon of his bed, the profound darkness greets her in its entirety that even the candle held by her hand cannot touch it. A chill settles on her spine from firm grasp on her wrist and her trembling heart may have given out if not for the faint light illuminating her husband's bearings.

His skin is pale in the pallor of an incurable however her fingertips remember its softness, and from each caress, she deceives herself to have been touched by the moon. The lavender silk from his wrists nods when they overlap on his hand as if his fairness is a burden to bear. The curls of his hair lightly kiss her knuckles, cascading from the broadness of his shoulders and falling just at the low dip of his collar. Her stare edges to longing. He is terribly beautiful.

However his eyes glisten like red jasper—and there is no _soul_ in them.

She wishes to resist him though there is so much solace from the smooth palm of his hand on her cheek. "I am here," his mouth moves, and all she can muse about is the sweet feel of his lips traced by her tongue. She nearly begs for that familiarity. "I am real." He leans in closer and olive blossom overcomes her senses.

Once he leads her hand down the tatami mat, the candlelight dulls and fades before him, and in these shadows, it reminds of their intimacy which is lost. The pad of his thumb lingers to the pulse on her wrist, the other to the curve of her throat; here, she ponders when he shall place his lips to her chest where he can tear out her beating heart, as all mononoke have.

Instead, however, her heart clenches when he whispers to her ear, "I am yours," and then her gentle unraveling: "my sweet Tsubomi."

It is torment, how the creature has perfectly spoken it. It has stolen his voice, his flesh—how dare it rob his memory as well! Overwhelmed by her conflict, she crumbles in her grief, collapsing in the luxury of his arms. She sobs on his chest, and as she holds him, she cries a little louder upon the sentiment that she embraces the corpse of her husband.

He lifts her face in a manner that meets his observing eyes. In a fleeting thought, Tsubomi ponders if he relishes the taste of her tears when he kisses them away. In such closeness, his hot breath unfurls from his parted mouth and when his lips claim hers, his tongue is warm and inviting. She cringes back from him, traitorously pining for the fullness of his mouth.

"Your hands are not supposed to be this cold," she almost wavers from the gentle sweep of his fingers on her neck. "And there are shadows on your eyes," there is tentative slide of his thumb beneath the cusp of her collar, a fleeting touch that licks like fire. He kisses her again, and when he hauls her onto his lap, she surrenders in his attentions. The illusion consumes her through teeth and tongue when her kosode immodestly slips from her shoulders.

"Please," she breathes out, but there is heat underneath her robes—and he knows, oh how he knows, "this isn't like you . . ."

When his hand traces the sensitive skin of her inner thigh, she shivers and _looks up_ —and in horror, she sees the blood-red eyes of a giant spider hovering above her; the bristle on each of its eight tall legs brushing on her body as if it threatens to squeeze her with its limbs and its head rears near her face. It blinks, eye movement in collective tandem.

Slowly, grotesquely, it opens its wide, wide mouth, baring its fangs that glint of thick venom and saliva. It is hungry and it hungers for her.

She screams.

Tsubomi wakes with a start. In the quiet, her ears are deaf from the stammer of her heart, like the flailing of a caught thrush. She inhales, closing her eyes. The chill draws the gooseflesh on her skin in pricks that press beneath dampened fabric. Salt coats her pores, moistens her eyes, and dries the very tip of her tongue. She shifts; dark locks of her hair slither from her neck, her shoulders, down to her breasts, like long greedy hands that slip under thin silk.

 _A fever dream_ , she excuses herself. The madness of one night clinches, and despite its terrors, what scars her most is how it simply _tantalizes_.

Below the sheets, her hand flits down to her sex, and much to her shame, she feels the traitorous wet trail of arousal coat her fingers. However before the intervention of the ōgumo, the man in those dreams sickeningly haunts her still with his caresses. Her throat hitches a breath from the workings of her own fingers, touching herself as he had. Closing her eyes, she gives in to a sigh.

In her sleep, she shudders when she almost imagines that there is a spider creeping up her thigh that touches like that of a cold, cold hand crawling in the apex between her legs.

* * *

 **Exposition Corner:**

 **Mononoke:** they are vengeful spirits, dead spirits, live spirits, or spirits in Japanese classical literature and folk religion that were said to do things like possess individuals and make them suffer, cause disease, or even cause death.

 **Kosode:** is a basic Japanese robe for both men and women. It is worn as both an undergarment and overgarment.

 **Ōgumo:** literally means "giant spider" in Japanese. An alternate name for _Tsuchigumo_.


	5. Memoir 5

_in the heart of the garden_

 _where golden light cannot touch_

 _the shadows of stolen kisses_

* * *

"Do you remember, my lord?" Tsubomi asks in a gentle voice as she treads about in the garden. In his finery of smooth sable and indigo, her husband follows her in her stride like that of the night that chases after the morn. "It was spring then, when you lead me down this path. You told me that the morning was beautiful and full of promise, that the thrush sings the same tune from the plum tree, and that I tread carefully for one of the thorn bushes caught my sleeve," her hand curls on her pale blue sleeve, moving as if it acts on its own will. Her eyes soften.

"You were kind to disentangle it with your hand," she reminisces the needles of a thorn bush, the warm touch of his fingers, and the pad of his thumb brushing over her knuckles, "however you cut yourself and then . . ." Kagewaki has such kind eyes at that time, even when he bleeds a little, and the sentiment never escapes her: how can she not love him for it?

She hears him draw a quiet breath. "I mind not bleeding for a fine lady beset with all the delicate beauty of the dawn."

Tsubomi is startled at first as he recites those familiar words lost in time. Her heart tightens, but she pursues to simper for him anyway, never letting emotion reach her eyes. "You have always had a way with your words," she compliments, batting her long lashes. "I had to chastise you, as it should be."

There is a smile in his face and it is pale and humorless. "Should I hold my tongue if I am a servant of the truth?"

 _Are you?_

"I suppose not," she tells him; there is disdain beneath all that sweetness, and on the off chance the creature notices, she lets her fingers brush subtly at the back of his hand in a pretense of endearment. "After all, what is an honorable lord if he is not one of virtue."

His fingers slip onto hers, and she thinks they are tangled and some part of her ponders over how she does not bleed because she knows those fingers prick without affection. Kagewaki squeezes them lightly. "You are upset," it is an observation, a mockery of concern, when the false sentiment leave his lips and he anticipates for a response.

Her thumb caresses the soft skin of his knuckle. Their eyes meet and they mirror each other's insincerity; what irony it is, how they are a perfect match. "I am worried," she lifts her heavy sleeve to her lips, partially veiling half of her face. "You must be tired, my love. I believe it should be the appropriate time to break our fast to the morning room, no?"

"I suppose," he tells her, reading her beneath his gaze. "Do you not wish to linger a little longer?"

Tsubomi sighs, her pale breath misting out from her lips. "No," her foot takes a tentative step closer to him, a rustle of pastel skirts brushing over his pants. A cultured woman, such as she, would know better than to exhibit such boldness however this creature is no man and no proper nobleman can still hold the gaze of an audacious woman without scorn or daunt in his eyes. There is some whit of glee in his, frivolous almost, as a mononoke's red smile.

Crimson lips curl into a telling simper, liquid and curved thinly as to not show teeth. "Tell me, my lord," she cranes her head, baring her neck slightly from her lapels as the weight of her dark hair drapes upon it; its ends falling at just the dip of her collar, "why have you decided to tread this path in such an early hour?" as the question takes place, she then coos in concern: "the cold is unforgiving for your constitution."

His mouth twitches. His thumb caresses the sensitive skin inside her wrist, drawing slow ruminating circles. "To admire the morning," and then like that of a lover's, he whispers, "and my wife." Once again so poised and precise, he starts in a knowing tone, "You tread the same path in this time, have you not?"

She nods. "Yes."

"I had hoped to find you."

Tsubomi hums, giving his words little thought. They are lies, after all. "I do think that you should have requested for me in your chambers," she advices placidly, and as to not appear suggestive, she mentions: "to spare you from exertion."

Her husband furrows his brows. Even when his irises catch the light, they remain dark and horrifically red. Her dreams still haunt her from the sight. "However there would be servants," he admits, moving the strands of her hair from her brow. "I would rather have you for myself."

Taking in the inflections of his voice, she tells him, "I am your wife. I belong to you."

Something in his gaze changes. He closes in to her face; in such proximity, the shadows of his lashes are long and spider-like. "Indeed," he says, cradling her cheek with the palm of his hand, "you are."

Taken aback by his actions, she hesitates. "We are outside," her breath hitches on her lips from the feel of his fingers idly running from her jaw to the length of her neck. Her skin stirs from his touch, chest thrumming in a dull distant echo to her ears. She wonders when he will graze his nails on her throat when she makes the slightest foolish decision to resist him.

"This is my garden," he whispers, like an omen. "No one shall see, if I were to tell them so."

He leans forth and she angles her mouth in a manner that seals his own. Time flutters and her heart counts the seconds when numb lips fondle the other. It is only when they separate, breaths drawn and damned, that her thumb gently wipes the rogue on his lips; a dark crimson smear, she muses, that should be likened to blood.

However she remains to trace the charming arch of his mouth and the familiar softness that tingles against her skin. Once he holds her wrist in place, he parts his mouth for a kiss on her finger, another on her knuckles, and a last lingering one on the inside of her wrist.

There is a hint of a smile from the corners of his lips. "Did I startle you?"

Her heart quivers, ever so slightly. "Yes," she breathes out. "My lord, I do not believe we should . . ."

Her husband takes one precise step; a flower crushed under the sole of his slipper. The high knot of his hair becomes undone, and as he stands close to her it becomes their shroud from the world. He appears wild underneath his dark curls, the manner it clings at the sides of his jaw, however there is beauty to it too, a feral beauty of a beast that pretends to be a man. She must have gone mad to have been captivated by it.

The wind rustles and the treacherous sweetness of olive blossom overwhelms her senses. "Yes," he captures her mouth, whispering in between their kiss: "we should." His hand traces the length of her spine, long fingers falling and falling. She trembles from the cold bead of sweat that trickles down her bare stomach and the tongue that licks the wet seam of her lips. There is a tug. "Do you not feel me beneath your robes?" something drops—a fabric of hanada dye—and then another, slipping in silk layers like the invitation of his voice, "I need you, my love," her breasts ache, and so does her heart, tenfold. His hand reaches for her, and there is an urgent plead between her legs, but it remembers the pain of a distant memory.

"Kagewaki," although shaken to her core, Tsubomi is not a fool. She cannot let herself be. "Forgive me," she mutters, fastening her robes shut. _Modesty_ , she thinks. _Is it but a cloak to hide one's shame?_ However the illusion holds her in place before she takes flight, his long arms entangling her as with pine spines catching the wing of a thrashing bird.

"Please forgive me," his voice is gentle and deceptively contrite. He embraces her, ensnares her back within her cage, and in spite it all, she is enamored of him because she realizes how she deeply misses that man. _What a beautiful lie_ , she muses pensively. _What a cruel one._

She returns his affections when she wraps her hand over his, tracing the soft lines of his palm with her thumb. _This is his hand_ , she knows, lifting it to her lips and trailing kisses on its delicate blue veins. Pale unblemished skin is smudged with rouge, like red flowers blooming on flesh. Bruises, she thinks after considering the sentiment: does he bleed as much as she does?

The time he releases her from his grasp; he wordlessly mends her loosened dress and she carefully picks the leaves on his hair. He does not wipe the marks on his hand and it almost feels as if he will rather flaunt it. Her husband, however, is unrepentant of his advances when he presses his mouth to her open palm, lips puckered, tip of his tongue peering between his kiss.

Tsubomi shudders, and the creature must have wanted that though he ceases there, parting with the feel of his mouth on her hand as an obscure promise. She looks into his eyes, pondering over the beast within. "Shall we leave, my lord?"

He almost smiles. Amused, perhaps. "Of course," and then a low caress to the ear, a mock: "my love _._ "


	6. Memoir 6

_when the morrow comes after the night_

 _let the swallows flock over_

 _and peck on the bone of each dream_

* * *

In her dreams, Tsubomi is disgraced.

And so she wakes from her bed.

A nightmare, however, leers at her in a beastly mask and cloak, veiled beneath the depths of the darkness in her private chambers. The painted silk screen might have shrieked at the sight of him, but her lips are sealed and so is the hem of her pale shift, clasped by a hand.

Finding her actions distasteful, Naraku reveals himself to her side. "Why is the lady still awake in such hour?"

"How dare you," she warns him, an anger seething under poised composure, "trespass in my chambers in the dark of the night. I shall make certain my lord husband knows of this misbehavior."

She raises her hand; her sleeve follows in a shallow motion, swinging forth. "Don't come near me lest I—"

Before she could strike him across the cheek, his long spidery fingers wrap around her wrist, a thumb prodded at her pulse in a caress. She shudders at the touch. His skin is cold, too cold, against the warmth of her flesh.

Naraku angles his concealed face ever so slightly at hers so he can revel over her contorted features. Something peers beneath the mask; a man or a monster?

He breathes out warmly to her palm.

"Will you scream?"

His tone holds a knife-edge to it. It cuts; just at the base of her throat.

She draws in a quiet breath through her teeth.

Tsubomi abides. "Why are you here?"

The air turns stagnant between them. This heathen threatens another second more and she waits in latent tension. He does it on purpose.

There is a sliver of satisfaction in his words when his thumb slides on her skin. The act is self-evident, though what captures his eyes is the art of her wrist; pale and slender, and if bowed, adorned with intricate blue veins, like ink against oil-paper. "I have heard you were in need of my assistance."

His thumb then crosses over the ridges of her knuckles in the manner she almost recalls as affectionate. Indulgent. It bewilders her, how he can touch her so freely, as if she is not bound by commitment—or rather, as if he has claimed her for his own. Tsubomi loathes him, nonetheless. "I no longer have any use for you," she reasons, attempting to whisk her hand back. "Stop touching me."

He ignores her request. "Is that so?"

"Indeed," she rips her hand from his grasp; he releases her. "Now leave me."

However Naraku stays in his place, right beside her.

"You intrigue me," he admits, "however you despise me as well. Humor me, lady, where does this spite come from?"

And she does, with venom in her voice.

"You are naught more but a fiend hiding behind a carcass."

His pelts and furs bristle, his teeth glint beneath the jaws of a baboon mask, and in his muted madness, Naraku laughs and _laughs_.

When the humor dies from his mouth only then does he muse: "I suppose there is truth in your words," he ponders aloud, cocking his head to the side. "This time, tell me, do you love your lord husband?"

Her brows furrow, uncertain of his intentions. "Of course," she replies, unwavering. "My heart and soul are his and his alone."

"Such devotion," Naraku says this with all the cruel mockery in his tone. Hasn't he always been such a vindictive man, deep within his soul? "Though your Lord Hitomi is _frail_ ," he emphasizes, words with teeth, "failing in his youth," and then surfacing under his disdain is what she believes to be indignant bemusement: "how can you devote yourself over an ill-stricken man?"

She adores her husband, she would have claimed. However she riles at his accusations and decides to censure him, for the sake of her spouse. "You shall not speak profanities of his name."

In his voice, there is malicious glee. He shamelessly closes himself near her, enshrouding her frame in his colors. "Ho, but it is the truth, is it not?"

Tsubomi does not speak in black ire and he does not care, when words like poison taunts out from his silver tongue. "However, I suppose the matters of the heart," then he must have sneered, "is damnably complicated."

"Unlike that of flesh, defined by sensation, of that _heat_ ," his ice-pale lips are hot against her ear, breath moist and sweet—like wilted olive blossoms.

Then something stirs beneath her skin; a cold tremor to the spine and a warmth under her belly. He comes for her once more with sighs as soft as ghost kisses. "Lady Tsubomi," her name curls around his tongue, making it sound so corruptible, so desirable, "You are a woman in the end. Human," his condescension is then lost to the dark delight of a vicious creature than that of a licentious man.

"Do you desire him on your bed?"

Even if she cannot trace his true countenance, she can feel the smirk on his mouth, stretched taut and twisted at the edges. "Do you dream of him in these lonesome nights," it is not quite a question now when his tone spins and strips her from her modesty; her skin shamed, her soul shaken, "mounted above you, his hands on your breasts, he, between your legs," and he whispers sinfully to her ear, as if to share a secret: "to _deflower_ you?"

Cold sweat prickles all over her body; her pearl-white kosode clings onto her like second skin and its luxurious silk almost feels repulsive, its purity soiled, when it molds promiscuously on the shape of her waist and the swells of her breasts—her nipples strain beneath, carving its desperation on thin, thin fabric. Too tight, she thinks, stifling from the heat that swelters on her limbs, on the crevice between her legs. The air becomes heavy and humid, making her lungs writhe within her ribs. She does not breathe. She does not move.

And he knows. _He knows_.

Will he touch her?

Her inherent shame compels her to fold her arms over her chest, as if attempting to conceal herself as she lays there naked in front of his eyes; _his_ wretched eyes that trace the woman within, promising to grope and grasp and grab her over and over again. She gasps at the feeling, her pulse racing from her neck. Her thighs clamp together, shut close. He feels too close.

Will he touch her?

"Ah," Naraku murmurs finally, "have I shaken you, my lady?"

His hand crawls to her thigh; the movement is slow and measured, when his fingers splay over the cusp of her knee, edging at the line betwixt her legs. He touches her there, just at the hem of her robes. A wet trail pools within.

Will he take her, here?

And then his other hand reaches for her shoulder, trailing down to the length of her arm, the delicate jut of her elbow, and then her wrist—holding it firmly with his palm like a manacle, moving it aside to reveal the swollen ache in her chest. Her truth is a foul thing and it manifests as an unpleasant warmth soaking through silk. He smells too much like her lover.

He unravels her, bit by bit. Perhaps, he smiles. "So it is true."

She throbs, oh how she throbs.

Will he—

" _No!_ "

As if it possesses a will of its own, her arm jerks back violently and the back of her hand hits his jaw.

"Don't you dare touch me again!" as Tsubomi pushes herself shakily away from him, she manages to snarl out her indignation in shallow pants, salvaging some shred of dignity: "I shan't tolerate your perversions, you loathsome. . .you. . ."

For an interval, there is a glimpse. Her blood turns to ice.

Crimson gleams beneath the baboon mask, a dark wisp of curled hair against skin as pale as the waning moon. A vile smirk under sullied white and gray and purple. The darkness of the night cast its illusions. Her lower lip trembles.

In her stunned silence, he dips his head low enough to consume his face back within the abyss of his cloak. "This Naraku deeply apologies, my lady," he speaks to her in a humbling tone, suited for a nameless servant, as he retreats back to the sliding door. His form bleeds in the shadows and only his voice remains, a seductive whisper: "I bid you pleasant dreams. . ."

Tsubomi almost mishears him mutter _wife_ from the long drawl of the midnight breeze.

She denies everything. His words and his voice—almost like Kagewaki's.


	7. Memoir 7

**A/N:** Ratings changed to **M** for sexual content/references.

* * *

 _even the thick seams of patience_

 _bend and break from each woven thread_

 _and the final snap ends in discord_

* * *

Her husband does not seek for her company for a fortnight or so.

However when he does, it is during the heavy outpour of the rain. Beneath the shielding of a crimson parasol, he finds her outside his garden, where she stands wet and shivering in her slippers and sleeping garments. Her presence may be likened to that of a ghost, paling in comparison to that of the graceful Lady Hitomi, as she becomes the white wench that creeps from the stalk of each rosebush and the trunk of each evergreen.

Under the black-blue locks of hair, behind the pale mist in her eyes, Tsubomi sees him from her line of sight. She almost mistakes him for an illusion—or perhaps, he remains so, as this beautiful creature that calls itself her husband. Her judgment has been clouded for these past few days and it makes her distant and distrustful.

The servants may have called her actions madness though she favors the word grief; for grief invites madness and the source of her grief is that of the loss of a lover.

Clumps of the hair she has prided on sticks uncomfortably to the base of her neck, to her brow, and to the corner of her bluish lips. The chill settles over and it may have hung onto the drenched robes that cling on her skin like a layer of thin frost, but what makes the hairs on her back stand is him. He approaches her, one step at a time. She takes a step back.

"Don't come after me."

His brows knit from his forehead. "How can I not? In your state," he affects concern that can make a frail heart lurch, "you are soaked to the bone."

Sighing under her breath, she roams and roams away from him until she reaches the deepest parts of the garden. He follows after her, regardless.

Tsubomi halts just at the flowerbed of blue and purple hydrangeas; all dewed and despairing from the morning rainfall. Absentmindedly, she reminisces of an old poem about dew being the tears of lovers who part at dawn. "You are not supposed to be outside in this rain."

His footfalls are light when they touch the soft grass and he nears her steadily. "You shouldn't be either," he says behind her, covering her head with his parasol, and then in a gentle plead: "come inside, my love," but she is stubborn and scared, because her affection for him is blinding and he, too, is blinding.

When Kagewaki carefully turns her to confront him, she attempts to conceal her bare countenance with her drooping sleeve. "Please," she mutters. "Don't look at me."

However his hand pushes down her arm, returning it back to her side. Once she averts her eyes from his, he hooks his thumb under her chin, letting their gazes meet underneath the crimson parasol. "You are beautiful," he assures her, caressing the swell of her cheek, "and cold."

Naturally, she leans in to his touch. "So are you."

He is both.

Beneath her thick lashes, Tsubomi beckons for him. "Kagewaki," she whispers—wonders why she asks, "please, hold me."

Disentangling his grasp from the parasol, which falls down to their feet, only then does she reflect if she is the one that has fallen for him when she gives in to his embrace; his long arms promising devotion when they knowingly bound her to him and him alone. She presses her cheek to the nape of his neck, taking in the haunting scent of olive blossom. "Tell me," she starts, "why are you so cold?"

He does not answer, and she believes the silence speaks alone in volumes. Her lips twist into a rueful smile. "There is almost no warmth in you," she breathes out despondently to his chest, her fingers tracing the length of his spine. "Even if I touch you, does your blood not boil for me?"

His response is swift and immediate; it almost comes in a flurry, when he smothers her in a starved kiss. Teeth gnawing, tongue curling at the roof of her mouth, he tastes her here—her bitterness, her sorrow—in their clash. For once, she thinks, she appreciates the creature's sincerity because there is no gentleness in their kiss. Withdrawing, she pants out, "will you take me?" the possessive hands sliding down her waist answers for her.

Arduous still, he hisses to her chin, "Must you tempt me?"

"Take me," she implores this time, their wet lips almost touching, sighs mingling. "I need you."

And when he does, in the confines of her bedchambers, with their drenched clothes pooling under their ankles, that she hesitates. Her husband is handsome and fair in his youth however she cannot recall his replenished strength and health when he takes her in his arms and they lay tangled in her sheets. Gleaming silver from the rainwater on his skin, he kisses her passionately, like a dream, and she fears this as much as she aches for it. She searches for him—again and again, from the dark curls of his hair, from the depths of his stare . . .

His eyes are red, like the blood on his chin.

"No," Tsubomi whispers, her tongue tasting his blood from her teeth. She rises and turns her back from him, her arms wrapping over her chest as if to save her purity, but she knows better that purity is lost when a girl is deflowered into womanhood. She has given everything to him, her heart, body, and soul, and where is her beloved Kagewaki when a stranger lies on her bed? "No. . ."

A cold hand touches the curve of her spine, trailing down at her hip. "Come to me, please," he does not plead, however, when he hauls her quivering body to meld with his, his chest molding to her back, his pelvis to her bottom, but there is no trickle of heat in his flesh; no blood, no heart, no soul. She bites down a sob.

His chin rests at the hollow of her collarbone, a damp cheek against her tangled sopping hair. "I love you," but he tells her this with a hand crawling up to fondle her breast, the other to force apart her thighs. A hot breath is drawn, and his soft mouth brushes over the column of her neck, whispering: "do you love me?"

There is so much certainty in his voice that it no longer poses as a question. She breathes out—or perhaps, she struggles, because his lips move, and his hands move, and his fingers move, gently, so gently, across the juncture of her inner thigh, the mound beneath. "Yes," she says it like a prayer, like repentance, when her tongue is thick with sin and her voice is drowned from the sound of him and the squelch of his fingers inside and out of her, over and over, _deeper,_ "yes . . . _o-ohh,_ " her head leans to his shoulder, neck bared and bitten by teeth, and she sighs from the smile that bears no warmth. Resignation or release, the two appears no different. He has _never_ been so deft.

From the rumpled sheets, the pale imitation hovers and huddles over her frame; cold skin coalesces against cold skin, overlapped with white lips and blue sighs and wet, wet feet. The sharp gasp of thunder rolls from a distance. Her eyes flit up to the low ceiling.

Above them, a spider laughs.

* * *

 **Exposition corner:**

' **. . .** **dew being the tears of lovers who part at dawn** **'** **:** a reference to a poem in Chinese by Sugawara Michizane, found in the _Wakan rōeishu_.


	8. Memoir 8

_such poignant beauty grazes_

 _rips through skin like paper_

 _but the madness dwells deep within_

* * *

Thin brows, strong chin, the hard lines of his jaw, brushing against her throat and down to her chest.

The elegant crane of the neck, like a dancer's; three dark stars hide behind his heavy curls, just beneath his ear, and her mouth traces a path to them, but she loses her way, regardless. Drowns on his pale skin, drowns beneath every dip and dive he does. Her hand slides down the tail of his spine, ending from the hip. A birthmark, she searches, desperately, there should be . . .

Kagewaki locks himself between her thighs; a hot steady friction. It makes her skin melt, sticking, meeting with his, until her hackles rise, and he plunges in.

 _There_ , she sighs.

The intimate sound is sharp, reverberating like a wet slap of leather.

However this one is flesh against flesh.

Silken lips brush on her neck, teeth grazing to meet skin, to sink onto it, until her throat hangs open for him and her voice bleeds between the obscene rhythm of bodies and breaths and soft murmurs of wood underneath them. It is good. It is strange. It is wretched. The feeling; the euphoria of completeness, of a man buried deep within her.

And yet this is a monster, too. A horrible monster wearing her husband's beautiful face

It—he smiles. Tsubomi wants to claw it out, but she does not have the heart to scar Kagewaki's lips. Lips that meld against hers, tongue that slides in and robs her of revenge. Gentleness, softness, sweetness; all lies, thick as spoilt honey.

Though the heat is not.

When he takes her, he does. He rolls his hips and thrusts. Making love appears distant in the manner he moves inside of her, unaffected, sensual, purely indulgent; as if they are rutting, unchaste without restraint, like common harlots in a closed brothel.

But they are husband and wife, master and mistress of a clan, paragons of nobility, above the vices of carnal pleasures. Yet he fucks her, until her knees give in and she can hardly make sense of the world outside these sheets and the midnight curtain of his hair. She aches a shameful ache; it fills her to the brim that she feels she is about to burst, break beneath his weight—and would he not desire for that?

Her voice cracks a little over a heavy pant. His name becomes fragments on her lips. "—waki . . . please," stop. He pushes in, deeply. "Ah, I, mm—" he seals her mouth with his own, cauterizing them in silence. The touch sears still.

His eyes like red embers burn when they gaze at her, down to the swell of her lower lip and the lewd sight of his palms groping her breasts. " _Tsubomi_ ," he murmurs, placing a wet kiss on the place between them, "if only you can see yourself now, so disheveled," the creature talks this time, taunts sweetly, "it becomes you, wife."

He goes on and on. Faster. "This," his chest is a wall of ice, but even his voice holds some semblance of warmth. Something dark and stifling, like woodsmoke. "Do you want this?"

His thumbs flick, rubbing on the rosy peaks of her chest. Flushed, erect. Seeking his—and he grants one with a slow lap of his tongue. Tsubomi closes her eyes. Stop. "Kagewaki," he sucks, tasting, tugging with teeth. Her back arches for him. "Kagewaki. . ." she bites her tongue, hoping it bleeds and makes her mute.

"Y . . . yes," her hands rove on his hair, fingers coiling and wrenching. Her hips tense. Her body shakes. "Yes," and so she cries; the high exquisite, and it twists her inside. She writhes too, in her shame. Her warmth spills, weeps, staining the side of her thigh, leaving its memory on her bed. Make it stop, she thinks.

Her hands dive down in search until her nails rake the skin of his back. He does not cease, but he stares at her, finally. It is intense and feral, as it looms over her bearings, stirring her erratic chest and shooting down to the heat of her quim. It rattles from her walls, to the tips of her toes, behind her eyelids; her release is so near. He understands this; he feels it, her need. And he pleasures her—he knows this now, torments her for it.

However there is a chuckle in the dark. Footfalls and raindrops thrumming in the room as with her own heartbeat—quick, maddened, like the beat of wild wings. Lightning strikes, thunder rumbles, and white light streaks in a flash of a face, of fanged lips, of the ogumo. As she screams out from the paper walls, reached her pinnacle in a hot blaze, she finds the newfound strength to topple him down and straddle him between her legs. Their thighs are stuck together, smeared and slick still. Even if her knees quiver and his length remains wedged inside of her, she does not hesitate clasping her hands taut around his throat.

Kagewaki does not attempt to stop her actions, but he rasps out: "Have you gone mad?"

Her mouth crooks bitterly. "I must have. I know you are not him. This is his face, his hands. . ." a weak chortle leaves her lips, breaking into a quiet sob. Her hold tightens. "But is he still there? Tell me what you are lest I strangle you for it."

"Tsubomi," he feigns a plead. His breath does not struggle. "Please."

"Don't lie," She hisses, clenching her teeth because her lips tremble at the sight of him, seeing a faint glimpse of her husband in those eyes; like this, framed with dark lashes and a fragility she cradles close to her chest. "Don't lie." Weakness overcomes her, as her face presses to his cold chest, blue-black hair falling on her eyes and splaying onto the slopes of his shoulders.

He makes a soft noise from his throat. "Shh," a hand glides up to the back of her scalp, threading her locks through his fingers. He jolts his hips up, making her gasp.

"Hush now," he whispers, voice like snaring silk. He then grapples her hips firmly in place with his hands when she attempts to slip away from him. He grinds into her, and the heat treacherously spreads up to her abdomen. "Let me make you feel better."

Repressing a moan, Tsubomi shudders out a breath. "Stop," he does not. His thumb flit by those lips, teasing, tracing a stripe, until it slides in, slowly up, and prods. It burns, so so much, "stop . . . I'll claw out your heart, I swear."

This earns her an amused chuckle, a lapse of character. He stops, but everything he has left trickle down the crevice between them. "Tsubomi, would you truly end your own husband?"

She glares down on him. "And what remains of him but skin and rot?"

His smirk is poisonous. "Am I not convincing, my love? Ah . . . am I not better?"

In this rain and revelation, a cold fury wreathes onto her soul. Her nails rip at his skin. " _How dare you._ "

Her hands remain wound on his neck, the force bruising and livid, though he rises from his position with ease, unhindered by Kagewaki's sickly constitution. An unnatural strength dwells within him; muscles like wrought iron, beneath skin as soft and pliant as satin. Even with such strength, he does not detach himself from her grasp.

He only leans in, caresses the side of her bare thigh. "You never seem to resist when I touch you," he tells her this, letting their chests merge, fall and rise together, complete the other intimately. A lock of his hair clings to her throat; the taste of his sigh latches on her mouth. He does not release her and she does the same. He thrusts in. Her eyes pulse wide, bemused and indignant and agitated.

A venomous delight slithers across his features. Again and again, his hips move, sating a void, an emptiness, that cruelly pushes in something similar to fullness, oh decadent bliss. Her body meets this satisfaction, invites it, beckons—because it is her husband's flesh, the scent of his sweat, the palms of his hands. "Do you not see yourself keening," but the creature reminds her once more, a brush of dark lips against her ear, "needing me, wanting me . . . give in, wife," so much forceful persuasion, from his tongue, from his fingers _underneath_ , "I can make you ache for it."

"I ache for him," Tsubomi declares, heaving out pants, gripping, "only him, only my lord."

A hand then lifts her chin up, fingertips tracing over her jaw. "Look at me," he tells her. "Is this not the rest of him?"

There is an unpleasant churn at the pit of her gut, dread washing her whole, fracturing her delusion, her sanity. Her fears grapple her through its long spidery arms. "No," she breathes out, "no. It can't . . . where is he," her voice breaks, tears veining within its cracks, "where is he, you foul creature," and then she quivers, muttering under her breath, "you murderer."

"Here," he says, remorseless. "With you, inside of you."


	9. Memoir 9

_from the pillow that holds_

 _a thousand sighed secrets_

 _a dark promise remains_

* * *

The privacy of paper-thin screens and lacquered wood eclipses the waking world outside.

Time is suspended, the rain pours its rage still; like a black-shrouded widow almost, that weeps outside the walls of her chambers. Most of their clothes lay disheveled on the floor, the heady remnants of their previous actions on the sheets, left unspoken. _Twice_ , Naraku recollects, anyway. She came twice, fell for him twice. Moaned, clawed, pleaded for him, under him, twice.

Yet he wonders how she is able to face him now, despite what has feverishly transpired between them.

Clad in his damp outer robe, he still catches her scent, potent and raw on the crumpled bedding, on his skin—on her wet cunt, beneath the foolish attempt to bury her shame under a cotton robe. From his tongue, he can taste her heat still; bittersweet, as with desperation and reluctant compliance. Then he reminisces of blood, pleasantly acrid against her blunt teeth, stained on her soft mouth. An intriguing reminder.

She may have been stripped open once, scantily covered now, but something changes in her; a quiet strength, resolution shaping her small form, and then . . . a darkness, something unfathomable, behind her eyes. Her posture is rigid when she confronts him.

Lady Hitomi never fails to impress her high position; as a stoic matriarch, she stares him down.

"What are you?"

"I'm disappointed," he drawls out in tedious condescension. "You should know the answer, should you not?"

She draws in a quiet breath. "Then I demand this," her tone, phlegmatic it may be, bares shades of resentment, "why do you have his face?"

" _Demand_ ," he repeats, nearly chortling out the word in disdain. "Are you not afraid?" he watches her, preying on her movements, her practiced breathing, the delicate lines of her face . . . the angry red of her mouth, how thin and stern it is. She looks as if she is made of priceless ore, and he wants to touch her, to shake her off her steel spine; she makes it so tempting, to ravish her in monstrous ways.

"Impudent woman," he scoffs, sneering. "You think you can overpower me," his head cocks to the side, as he waits for her to rout out a reply. He hopes for an amusing one.

"No," she simply says. "I think you will humor me."

His brows raise at her answer. "Explain," he demands.

"It will be foolish to think that upon receiving the truth—if the truth comes out of your mouth, that is—I will be in peace," she reasons. "However I am selfish and I shall soon perish in your hands, anyway. It will cost you nothing," and as to remind him, she says, "I deserve to know the truth."

 _So be it._ He then admits, "I was in need of a body."

This makes her bristle. "Why must it be him?"

"Does it matter if it is him?" the honesty of his voice shreds away what makes Hitomi Kagewaki valuable; dare he even say, _special_. Because truthfully, he is no different from the others before him, and has served a better purpose as a corpse than he is alive. Naraku revels in her indignance. "He happens to be there and I have taken a liking to your lord."

"To pretend that you are human," she hisses, her voice holding venom, "to _feel_ as humans do."

Naraku glowers at her.

"Do not test my patience."

Still, she does not tremble under his glare, and as much as he is intrigued of how he can strip away her layers, he finds her impertinence unwelcome. "How long have you taken him away from me?"

"Long enough, I suppose," he tells her, letting his face show apathy, _mocking_ her it, "For the household to believe that I am their frail master," and then, reminding her, "for you to believe that I am your beloved."

Her mouth twitches at the word. Beloved. _My love._

Loathing, anger, betrayal, . . . _regret_ —how it consumes his lady, how it makes her weak, cut-open. Pathetically human.

A humorless smile curls her lips. "Then I was right after all," she sighs under her breath. "To cling onto my suspicions of you."

"And you played into the game for a time," he says. "I should commend you; you know how to play well, my lady," it was almost respectable; her deceptions, her shrewdness, for a mere woman, "however all that cunning is wasted for a dying lord. You are a fool to love him."

"Indeed, demon. I am a fool for him," she confesses, gently reminding him: "but I am not your fool."

From such words, Naraku laughs.

She watches him in silence.

He does the same, when he confronts her, finally. She still wears her audacity and pride like armor, but he can feel her apprehension . . . her tension rattling within, that it is almost palpable on his tongue. "Ah, so in our shared moments, from that dour morning," he looms over her, a breath's close, mouth angled near her ear. "you came to _me_ ," knowing what he is, what he has taken, "willingly."

He leans back to find her petrified, mute. "Was that what you meant," his fingers push back a lock of hair behind her ear, "for not being my little fool?"

Tsubomi was too stubborn, too prideful, to ever admit it before him, however.

"I am only _his_ fool."

"A dead man's fool," his smile was cruel, crueler when it'd been her lover's cold lips, "did you find sweet release from his corpse," he waits for an interval, ". . . or from me?"

In quiet retaliation, she attempts to slap him. Her hand is an inch close to his cheek, held back by his own.

"Impetuous," he scolds. His grasp on her wrist taut and relentless. "You might lose your hand for that," but he decides against it, "do you not fear for it?"

There is none. Her dark eyes are shadow and conviction; he looks onto the abyss, and it was morbidly captivating. He pondered how he should break her.

"Will it matter?" she tells him. "You will kill me."

"I will," he promises, though his malice becomes a whisper against her skin, "slowly," his lips descend to her white knuckles, lingering, "painfully," his eyes are attentive to her countenance, as to provoke her, and she does with a shiver—not of fear, or putrid cowardice; he breathes in an intimate scent, a scent that makes her soft and pliant and contrite. His eyes stare on the tied sash of her robe. "But not yet."

He then releases her wrist from his grasp, his message put across, and it colors her face with bemusement and a startling consternation. Good. He has no interest in daft wenches.

Tentatively, Tsubomi opens her mouth; her hand is clutched close to her chest as if burnt. "Why?"

"Your death is meaningless to me," _and so is your life_ , he admits, but opts to not slit her throat when he can marvel over its pale smoothness, its warmth, the small trembles of its pulse. "You are but a distraction, a fleeting amusement," he wants her to speak, to convince him otherwise to be with her dead lover, but she remains a patient woman and so she waits, stalling for measly seconds to live. She listens.

Amusingly, Naraku realizes she is not as devoted as she appears.

"Tsubomi," he then cups her cheek as she had once to him, the gesture deceptively fond and mimicking, however the smirk on his lips is anything but. "Be a convincing wife for you are mine."


	10. Memoir 10

_the lover treads gently_

 _footfalls as soft as a heartbeat_

 _under the dark veil of the night_

* * *

 _A woman in crimson will oft come for him in nightfall._ Her lady mother will hear the rumor spill from the walls like hot oil, but she will not sob for such a thing, for she has been the third mistress for a time and she is no different to the concubines her father has invited to his bed.

In lieu of brood and depressive spells, a malady so common to find in the younger concubines, her mother perseveres, tightlipped, shoulders thrown back as an exemplar of a dutiful wife. Every night she will tell her stories of old, of the legendary Okinagatarashihime no Mikoto and the onna-musha, Tomoe Gozen. Her mother has spoken more reverently of Empress Jitō, for her cunning and her power over the court. Women of power, women she must aspire to be, as she is told.

Her father is like any feudal lord, brutal and rigid. However, her mother, of proud Fujiwara descent, is as ruthless in mind and spirit.

 _Never trust_ , advises her mother, a distant echo trailing after a swift slide of her door. Footfalls follow after. _Never love. To give yourself in whole is to invite weakness._

A prowling figure looms behind her reed blinds and it waits in silence. This does not make Tsubomi cease writing, but her heart thrums anxiously from her chest. Her husband has not sought for her in a span of a moon or so. Her handmaidens are even concerned of the matter, going through lengths to tell her that he has once demanded to take in a beautiful priestess, and often, he welcomes a red woman to his bedchambers as of late. At times, a pale-faced girl— _a child_ , no older than ten summers.

Her lashes lower in reflection. _Let them distract him,_ Tsubomi muses, preferring her quiet solitude.

She is the first to speak, however: "what is it that you want?"

"Show yourself."

There is no flattery in his voice. It is calm and patient, but deep in her bones, its very inflection chills the small of her spine. An order, simple as that. When she obeys, his hand intervenes, lifting up her half-open blinds to invite himself in, and she reflects disdainfully, how long has this creature wormed his way inside her life, doing whatever it is that he pleases, like the maggot that feeds on spoilt flesh?

Tsubomi acknowledges his kind—the strange uncanny being that he is—yet she ponders why he behaves more like a man than the beast that he claims to be. There is nothing to deceive before her eyes, as much as there is a reason for her to commit to it.

"You grace me your presence, husband," she lowers her head, watching him sit at the opposite side of her writing table. Still so aristocratic and graceful when he does so. "I am humbled."

"We both know you'd rather distance yourself," he scoffs, but his tone is more dismissive than indignant. "Speak freely."

"Yet we remain to dishonor what is honest and true, regardless. It is a strange request, is it not?"

"It is not a request."

Sighing softly, she abides. "Then if you will, my lord, why have you come for me?"

"It has come to my attention that you manage his household and his lands."

 _How curious_ , she muses to herself, for him to ask when all he does is disappear beneath the shadow of his room, refusing the word of guests and healers alike. "You were . . . preoccupied," she says, brushing aside the lingering thought of the women that has entertained him. "I fulfill my duties in earnest."

Again, the creature pursues, "And they listen to you? Even his old doddering advisers."

Because she has proven herself to be capable, to be disciplined, to be ambitious, like her mother and more than her father and her brood of disputative siblings. Despite their patent prejudices at first, they did learn to acknowledge. "At times. But I would also seek their counsel," she admits before addressing, "which reminds me, may I borrow your seal, my lord?"

He only raises a brow.

"Lord Uesugi asks for able men to fight against the Hôjô in Musashi. From my estimate, I can only lend him five-hundred strong," she explains. "Of course, this is all under your name, with the Hitomi seal."

"Do whatever you will with it."

She dips her head gratefully.

"I find it impressive," he observes her, "how much power you wield in this castle."

"Are you concerned that I will turn their backs against you, husband?"

"Should I, when I hold so much power over you?"

"You may have spared my life," Tsubomi says, imperious and dignified as a lady, scorning still like a vengeful crone. "However I am not grateful being your captive."

"Yet you stay," he says this in a mockery of affection; unintentional, perhaps, but with him, every fond gesture belies something clandestine and insidious. His head tilts in the familiarly curious manner her husband used to; his crimson eyes were inquisitive, intelligent, reading between the lines of her face. "You made no attempt to escape me."

 _I am not devoted to you, demon,_ she would like to contradict, but kept it as an adamant promise only to herself. _Never to you._

"It is foolish," she shuffles a little when his hand reaches for her sleeve underneath the table. "You will find me," his fingers marvel over Chinese silk, drawing idle patterns, until it traces the curve of her jade bracelet, achingly similar to the manner he would tease skin, "or perhaps, if I do succeed, there is nothing for me outside my lord husband's lands."

A feather-light brush to her ring, a knuckle, a finger, like a long languorous lick. "How so?"

Her hand lands atop of his, before he could come any further. "I was bred to be a warlord's wife. I have nothing to return to and I certainly cannot leave the man I am wed to."

"One day, you will end me," she tells him, reminding herself. "Outside, there is only uncertainty. Danger. The world remains torn apart by battles and warmongers," she remembers the deeds and terrors of her lord father, and her half-brothers, the strife they have caused to his enemies, as they fight battle upon battle, another tactic against the next; she remembers the blood on their armor, the heads rolling from their swords when they cut a man down; behind the shrubbery, she remembers their spoils, war slaves, and wenches, all malnourished, bruised purple and bleeding between their thighs. _The world is chaotic_ , her lady mother has once told her, and she fears its unpredictability.

But she looks at him, her husband's murderer. She may be caged beneath his shadow, but there are worse ways to die: "and as I see it . . . there is your kind."

Then there was clarity in his gaze. "You will rather wait for your death here."

"It is inevitable," Tsubomi says in reflection, until her eyes stare back at him, glinting like a dagger wrapped in cloth. "But death does come to all."

"Like your husband and his father before him," he reminds, shackling his bone-white fingers around her wrist. "Which does make me curious, wife . . . you were supposed to be his father's wench. His stepmother."

An interval passes. Stunned wordlessly, she draws a breath and speaks.

"Supposedly. I was a gift for his father, a negotiation of peace between two warlords," she reminisces of a time she is swaddled like a gift, a pretty thing, a barter to be wed to a lord as old and bloodstained as her father. Then a boy, wearing purple and white, three summers younger than her. "It was until his son . . . Kagewaki took interest in me," because he dared to gaze, to smile foolishly, to send poems in the night, whispering promises to her ear, under the twining evergreens and the smiling moon, the open pavilion _where they once . . ._ "and had pleaded for my hand instead. The late Lord Hitomi gradually approved of our union."

"I was fortunate, truly. I had heard tales of how his lord father beats his women," she recalls distastefully; her wretched father-in-law, the daimyo of Tanshu, the late Lord Nagasaki Hitomi of the Uesugi, "and his wife, the poor thing, had to suffer from it as well. Kagewaki, however, had no shred of that cruelty."

He scoffs. "He was frail."

"Frail, but never weak," she tells him, voice steadfast and firm. "The weak are those cruel men who know not when to sheath their own swords."

"It is a shame we will never know then. Your young lord had never even wielded a blade, had never went out to war. To lead or rule properly. He was . . . ah, too coddled, you think not?"

"Perhaps . . . his constitution impeded him from certain tasks."

"Yet you adore him?" his disbelief is conspicuous, derisive . . . offendedly bemused. "A child lord, a _weak_ one, cloistered from his bed, unknowing of the world outside his garden."

Passion moved her, smoldering like fire in her chest. _How dare he._ "Perhaps, he was. Perhaps, he may have been . . . a child. A young man. Maybe, too kind and naïve and oblivious to many a thing. But he was my lord. He was mine and I loved him, loved him more than myself."

"Oh how you've _fallen_ , sweet Tsubomi," he jeers, chuckling harshly in his voice, in his tone, in his childish grin, "you offered yourself so willingly to a feckless boy who craved for a mother's attentions, who nestled himself to your breast like an infant."

Her hand curled to fists, knuckles white and taut. "Indeed, I did. And I'll do it again, if I am to have him still in my arms. Maybe, he was feckless and frail and he had no inkling how to manage a household or his father's lands. What you don't understand, my lord, was that I could have taught him. I could have helped him. I would have done anything for him, to be beside him, to lead beside him. And you took him away, you took that beautiful dream away. . ." she whispers under her breath, aching, mourning, _hating_ , "how can I not _despise_ you for it."

"Say it, wife."

His fingers tilt her chin up. "Say you hate me," he says, eyeing her in dark intrigue, "but utter my name when you do so."

Tsubomi abides with a scornful drawl, nursing a storm deep within her chest. "And what should I call you?"

He smiles, teeth sharp and cruel. When he tells her his name, she damns him to hell.

* * *

 **Exposition Corner:**

 **Okinagatarashihime no Mikoto** : famously known as Empress Jingū, she was the semi-legendary empress-regent of Japan who was said to have established Japanese hegemony over Korea, ruling in the year 201 after her husband's death.

 **Tomoe Gozen:** she was a late twelfth-century female samurai warrior ( _onna-bugeisha_ ), known for her bravery. She married Minamoto no Yoshinaka and served him in the Genpei War and was a part of the conflict that led to the first shogunate in Japan.

 **Empress Jitō:** she is one of the few prominent reigning empresses in Japanese history. She succeeded her husband, Emperor Temmu, as sovereign ruler in 686 following Temmu's death, in large part in order to ensure the later succession of her grandson.

 **". . . of proud Fujiwara descent":** the Fujiwara clan, one of the classical clans, first formed in the 7th century. They rose to power and prominence in Nara and Heian Period Japan, with the Northern Fujiwara effectively controlling the reins of power during the transition from the _ritsuryô_ system of government. Tsubomi's mother, however, comes from one of its five regent houses, the Konoe clan.

 **". . . the daimyo of Tanshu, the late Lord Nagasaki Hitomi of the Uesugi":** The Uesugi of eastern Japan (their domain at one point encompassed much of the Kanto region and Echigo province) were descended from Fujiwara Yoshikado.

In this story, the Hitomi acted as a fictional branch clan to the Uesugi; related to the Uesugi (through Nagasaki Hitomi's mother), but a minor clan nonetheless. The Hitomi governed Tanshu (or Tanba Province) neighboring Echigo Province, that was actually taken over by the Uesugi for a time. Another interesting note to fact is like the Konoe, the Uesugi were also of Fujiwara descent.

 **"Lord Uesugi asks for able men to fight against the Hôjô in Musashi":** A reference to the rivalry of the warring clans Go-Hôjô and Uesugi (as well as Takeda) that vied for power in Kantō. The event that was supposed to take place in Musashi Province is (eventually) the defeat of the Ogigayatsu-Uesugi and the Yamanouchi-Uesugi attempting to regain Kawagoe in 1545.

* * *

 **A/N:** The history lesson isn't going to affect the story as a whole, but it does touch on Tsubomi's character and why she acts the way she is. After all, family and upbringing will always be a massive influence in one's life.

I'm not sure how long Naraku pretended to be Kagewaki Hitomi, because later on, we still found him as the ill-stricken daimyo that Kikyo eventually encountered. While my hunch was that his advisers were the ones that did the governing, it's interesting to dabble on a bit about the human affairs and how it influenced a lot of things in the background.

The Sengoku era _was_ chaotic; everyone's fighting over power and territory and choosing sides to expand military force. Kagewaki Hitomi still had the responsibility in governing and protecting his lands, as well as sending supplies and soldiers to fight for allied clans to their wars.

Perhaps, it's Naraku's negligence (but let's be honest here, it's not like he gave a damn being a daimyo), which led to the province and the people in it dying slowly as the series progressed. Maybe, it'll live a little longer with our Lady Hitomi around. We'll see.


	11. Memoir 11

_hair tangles, snarls,_

 _coiling quietly like a wild vine,_

 _lingering to the heart_

* * *

There is a subtle power in seduction.

Instances when one can enrapture the soul, with crimson lips or the flick of a fan. Her master is its dark reflection; something desirous, something beguiling, something ominous beneath an epicene face, but he is too ravenous for power and the beauty he possesses is a glamor; stolen and rotting and belying a hideous monstrosity underneath.

His wife, or whatever pretense it is he calls her, is a woman. A fragile human. A _whore_ —that Kagura, the proud mistress of the wind, is ordered to watch over. _You will do all her bidding_ , said Naraku, as punishment for her shortcomings.

Kagura deliberately meets her in the evening in her barest form. Lady Hitomi is unveiled. The light of a candle dances across her unpainted face, yet Kagura cannot fully trace her bearings, peruse for something as small as scars and bruises, when the shadows become a part of her and Kagura compares her likeness to that of a half-moon; mysterious, partially hidden to the world.

A reflection of her eyes stares back at her from a bronze mirror. _They look like ink stains,_ Kagura thinks. The resemblance is almost similar to Kana's, but hers are not as empty and lifeless. The nape of her pale neck is bare; it gleams, a trickle of water curving a path from its length to the collar of her kosode, as if it beckons, _come for me, come for me_.

Her train of dark hair is swept to her shoulder, wet and abiding to the teeth of a jade comb. There is a semblance of grace in the manner she grooms her hair; slow and indulgent almost, each flick of her wrist counting the strokes.

"Good evening," the Lady speaks measuredly. "Has he sent you to watch over me?"

"Yes, my _lady_ ," Kagura bows, though her voice rebels in the form of a prevalent mocking tone. "I am to be your . . . servant."

"And what do I call you?"

"Kagura."

"Kagura," Lady Hitomi tests the name, rolling off her tongue in a contemplative hum, before handing her the comb. "Hm, you are my lady-in-waiting now, are you not?"

There is a slight smile curling her lips. It must have been tantalizing to a man's eyes. _Is that what he likes about her?_ But Kagura is not as simply charmed by simpers, because all she sees is that it comes across as smug. Imperious. She huffs out indignantly.

The Lady's hair is pulled back, and Kagura is taken aback of her own carefulness, carrying the thick weight of it as if it is as delicate as butterfly wings. A bitter part of her wants to tug at it, make this disdainful woman's scalp hurt to retaliate against her master, but if she is honest, she cannot help but marvel how her locks spill between her fingers and fall down to touch her thighs.

Kagura breaths in. _Camellia, tea leaf, linen . . ._

"Are you like his kind?"

"What of it?"

"You almost look like him."

"I am," and then she ruminates.

 _His incarnation. Of his flesh and poison._

"—my own," Kagura whispers, but it is a promise.

"So you are, Kagura," Lady Hitomi acknowledges.

* * *

"Why do you not just kill her?"

In the darkest corner of the room, Naraku is unfazed of her presence. "Why should I?"

It disgusts her, how he can simply possess that dead lord's wife with his face. Though Kagura is aware that he has no remorse when he has already taken the lives of wives and husbands and children and beasts for so long—but what makes this one an exception, to remain alive, beside him?

"I pity her," she whips her fan, covering half of her bearings. "She is nothing more but a plaything to you."

Naraku does not refute, but he reflects on her words, like a long-winding riddle. "Does she think that way, I wonder?"

Brows scrunched together, Kagura waits in her silence.

"I suggest you don't underestimate her, Kagura," Naraku advises, his eyes incisive and deep red, _like her own_ , "she is not as stupid as you are."

 _Bastard._ Kagura clenches her teeth together, seething in her silence.

However in the far reaches of her soul, Kagura knows her spiteful lies hides an unvoiced truth that what she truly sees in Lady Hitomi is a certain kind of semblance that she can trace back to the stoic daiyokai, Sesshomaru. An ethereal being; strong and proud and unreachable. Though she will often contradict herself because that woman is also nothing like him when she is mortal, corporeally delicate, and within her reach when she can touch her hair, feel the unblemished skin of her neck. Hear her rasp out a gasp behind a demure sliding door.

Kagura notices, too. The small gestures. The slightest smudge from the corner of her lip. She always finds the Lady left breathless, ill at ease in her practiced movements, when her master visits her and unconcernedly scatters traces of his arrival in her face.

It makes Kagura ponder, and her insides twist at the thought.

"Do you love him?"

"No."

Kagura frowns. _Doubts_.

"You sound sour, Kagura," Lady Hitomi tilts her head curiously at her, "do you lack his attentions as of late?"

Kagura sinks her nails on her palms, repulsed of her own skin. Skin that belongs to him. Everything that belongs to him. _Why do you think you're a woman, Kagura?_

"I never wanted any of it."

"Ah, it will appear we agree on a sentiment."

"Then _why_ ," Kagura demands in jealous indignation, of how she remains so distant and unmolested, of how she is impossibly unreachable,"do you remain to see him, to return back to his graces, letting him do whatever he wants to you, despite everything?"

The Lady only chuckles. "And now you insist we are alike."

"We are _not_ alike, human."

"As you say," she says, staring pensively to her window. "I had loved once, so long ago. . ."

Kagura is uncertain where Lady Hitomi is going with her words, whether to reason out her decisions or to move her with past sentiments. Obscure in her intentions, she has always been so eloquent in her expressions; perhaps, like reciting a poem or watching a dancer perform a grand act, it is difficult not to look away.

"It was strange at first. To love someone, truly, honestly. And in many ways, it makes me weak to remember what it felt like. To give in to that feeling, to adore it so much of what it brought. It is foolish, yes," she then continues, her voice unwavering, reaching out to her, "but because of that, of everything my lord was and had given to me, what would I not do for the one I love?"

Then for a beat, Kagura realizes, that she trembles from those eyes. Those dark mysterious eyes.

"Now, Kagura, tell me," her lips curve into a smile, red and soft . . . and inviting, "had you ever loved?"

An unspoken answer echoes inside, and there is regret; her mouth is tethered, unsealed against the drawn breath of another, when she knows she is the wind and she is free to speak her mind. It is foolish, she knows, as she stretches out a hand to the night, with the moon gazing down at her.

Kagura has never desired for anything else but her freedom. _Yes._

* * *

 **A/N:** Kagura's perspective is a bit out of place and maybe unwelcome to some, but it does hint on some things happening behind the scenes and it'll fall into place when the story progresses. (Also, there's more between Tsubomi and Kagura, eventually.) Don't worry, she won't be a major POV.


End file.
